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Saturday, 7 May 2016

Processionary Penitents - part 2 of 2

PROCESSIONARY PENITENTS

Part
2 of 2

- continued from yesterday

Nik Morton

“I hope I don’t need to draw you a picture, Señor Saura?” I adjusted the
tinted spectacles on my nose, shifted in the leather armchair, leaned forward
and stroked my false moustache. “You want me to arrange the substitution of a
more favourable copy of your building plans, correct…?”

His small close-set eyes
glared. “Of course I do!” He was thin, impeccably dressed in a charcoal grey
suit, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “That’s why I’m here!” We were alone in
the lounge of a safe house I’d used before. Spartan furnishing – a lounge diner
with two armchairs, the sofa, a small dining table and four chairs, a sideboard
and wall sconces for most necessary additional lighting. There were two small
bedrooms and a bathroom. “That’s why I’ve brought the money – all five thousand
euros!”

“Well…” I waved an arm,
shrugged dismissively, as if I didn’t really care about money, but felt that it
was expected in this kind of transaction. “A consideration, no?”

Saura closed his eyes; his
eyeballs moved under the lids, as if he was calculating the money, a euro at a
time. He ran a hand over his face, opened his eyes. “Very well.” He ground his
teeth together. I wondered if he would rather grind down those who opposed him
and his schemes; grind them into the earth.

“You should have been more
thorough with your plans, señor. Then this unsavoury transaction would not
prove necessary.”

“I regard it as pin money.
I can draw up the appropriate plans in an hour or so – and charge them for two
days’ work!” He slapped the chair arm. “Now, important work for the council,
that takes precedence every time!” He chuckled. “For that, I might make the
effort to check my figures, confirm the stress points and so on! But for the
little people, they don’t pay me enough to do that. Not nearly enough! They
should not have raised that denuncía
against me. I am a professional!”

“Of course. I quite
understand.” I felt like grinding my fist in his face then. He exhibited a
certain arrogance that I’d witnessed in a number of so-called professional men.

He pulled out a silk
handkerchief, wiped his brow. “So, Señor Santos, when can you arrange for the
switch?”

“Tomorrow.”

“That fast?”

“I thought it best for our
man to act promptly for you...” I held out my hand.

He removed a brown paper
envelope from his breast pocket, passed it over. Such envelopes had become a
cliché, yet were still used.

I opened it and scrutinized
the contents, counted the notes.

He growled, “It’s all
there!”

“I don’t doubt it.” I
continued to count it, marking aloud each thousand, ensuring that my actions
were in plain view of the concealed camera.

With his own words, he was the architect of his fall from grace.

Next day, Saura was found entirely cocooned in architect’s plans, all
fastened tightly with adhesive tape. In his chrysalis, his feet in a wicker
basket, he dangled above the pavement, the rope secured round his waist and
attached to a pulley on the balcony above.

He resembled a giant nest
of processionary caterpillars. Their white lacy cocoons cling to fir trees any
time from January through to April, depending on the weather. To begin with
they’re moths’ eggs; when they hatch, the larvae feast on the pine needles then,
as caterpillars, crawl down the tree to the ground, marching in single file,
nose to tail, in search of somewhere to dig underground and pupate, until the
end of the summer, when they emerge as moths. Their very fine hairs are
particularly nasty, causing rashes, itches or serious inflammation and allergic
reactions. Unwary dogs have choked with swollen throats. As hairy caterpillars,
they seem immune to prey; as pupae, they’re lunch for the Hoopoe; and as moths
they’re feasted on by bats. I wasn’t sure which stage Saura was in, dangling
there, but I anticipated that he’d be devoured by the press and the courts.

Señora Barrantes, the elderly lady in black, leaned over her
balcony and laughed, clapping her hands at the sight. The two Guardia Civil
officers in attendance were not so amused. Pinned to the architect’s chest was
a note, which stated that Saura had paid a bribe for someone to steal the building
plans from the courthouse; it also advised that a copy of the secretly filmed
meeting was with the press.

Later that day, the word
spread, the video going viral. The newspaper Información broke the story, complete with a link to the video of
the bribe. This wasn’t the first time the newspaper had promulgated a sting
operation and, judging by the corruption still prevalent, I didn’t think it
would be the last.

Kidnapping is against the
law; there are no mitigating circumstances. However, I feel that where
law-breakers are concerned, since they don’t respect the law, they don’t always
deserve its protection. Once I’d seen Saura to the door, out of view from the
camera, I applied a strangle-hold, his windpipe in the crook of my elbow; it
only took eight seconds to render him unconscious; I was careful not to exceed
that time as death could result. I prefer this for the less dangerous ungodly;
the dangerous ones, I have no qualms about hitting or squeezing the carotid
artery – again, with care, as this too can be fatal.

When he was suitably
wrapped for delivery, I bundled him in his car.

Despite his small stature,
it hadn’t been easy to suspend him there in the early hours, after the festival
lovers had finally retired. First, I had to clamber on to the roof of his
vehicle to reach the dangling rope, and then I heaved him up and made sure he
was safely secured. Only then could I drive off. I’d worn gloves throughout
this phase. I abandoned the car outside his villa.

I knocked on the Quinto door and it opened almost immediately. “Come in,
come in, Señor Cazador!” The old man hastened me into the lounge, pointed to
the television screen. I was in time to see Saura shouting that he was “a professional”.

“He is finished! My wife
will have satisfaction!”

I fished out the five
thousand euros. “You can probably make use of this, too. Small compensation for
the distress that man has put you through.”

His eyes watered. Pride
vied with common sense as his hands wavered, and then he took the money.
“Gracías, Señor Cazador.”

I nodded at the TV screen.
“I don’t think Saura is ever going to make it in Hollywood.” I pointed to the
rack of a dozen or so DVDs on the sideboard. “Stick to legal movies, with happy
endings like this one.”

“Mr Santos, it’s good of you to make it,” said Franco Roldan, opening his villa’s front door. He was dressed like a
movie star, multi-coloured short-sleeved shirt, white slacks, tan pumps. His
hair was thick, curly and dyed auburn. He held out a hand.

We
shook and he ushered me inside, and said to the goon at the door, “Back to your
post, Rico!” Rico was one of two armed men; three bikini-clad women lounged by
the swimming pool, sipping cocktails, but didn’t seem fazed by the sight of the
sentries with their Star Z-84 sub-machine guns slung over their shoulders.

Roldan
led me along a tiled passage, the walls adorned with modern art, though I use
the “art” word loosely. Art is a matter of taste – and Roldan’s was all bad.

“I’m
not the last to arrive, am I?” I queried, allowing a little anxiety in my tone.

“No,
no, we have Nico still to come. Then we can haggle about distribution, no?”

“I’m
not particularly good at haggling,” I said.

“No
matter. I will ensure that all of my associates do well out of this business.” We
entered and he gestured at a table where five men and a woman sat. A couple
looked Eastern European, the rest Latin. I knew three from Ministry of Interior
mug-shots. I detected a little tension as introductions were made.

I
sat at the table, laid my Samsung Galaxy mobile phone in front of me.

“Are
you expecting a call?” Roldan asked.

“No.
But it serves as my burglar alarm.”

Roldan
turned to the others. “His burglar alarm!” He laughed. “He is worried about
being burgled!”

A
couple of the men laughed too; the others either didn’t seem amused.

Nico
arrived and I noticed that the tension in the room eased.

“Right,
let’s get down to business,” Roldan said. “My factory is producing two thousand
DVD copies a day. A-list movies, acquired from good sources.” He opened his
laptop, clicked a couple of keys, and swung it round to show us the screen.

He
was right; this was the latest film, just released in the US; good quality. I
suspected that those gathered here wouldn’t like the ending, though…

“Where
is your factory?” Nico asked.

“Crevillente.”

“A
carpet warehouse?”

“Seems
like a good cover,” I observed.

At
least Roldan got the joke, smiling thinly. “Quite.” He then reeled off his
outlets, his couriers and the days when stocks would be replenished. He was a
good organizer, and very thorough.

Roldan
nodded. “Emil is very reliable. He has a number of insiders he can call upon.”

“Good.”
That was all I required. According to Seb, suspicions had rested upon a guy
named Emil Chapman in California. This was the proof they needed. Idly, I
switched off my phone’s voice recorder app, and then fingered the auto-dial.

Two shots were fired outside. Roldan stood and exclaimed, “What the hell…?”

I retrieved from my
ankle holster the lightweight Colt Officer’s ACP LW automatic and levelled it at
all eight of them. “You can try to rush me – the magazine only holds six
cartridges.”

Nobody
moved.

“Very
sensible.”

Seconds
later, Seb entered alongside a Civil Guard Lieutenant.

“You
seem to have everything under control,” Seb said.

I
nodded. “The details you want are on my phone.”

The Guardia Civil, the National Police and
the local police had raided the villa en masse, Seb accompanying them. The
women in bikinis scampered out of the way as armed lawmen scaled the walls, wounded
the two sentries, skirted the swimming pool and burst into the lounge. They
found me with the guilty parties. The entire operation was filmed by the
Guardia Civil.

Roldan and his cronies
were read their rights and handcuffed. “Your days are numbered, Santos!” Roldan
grated.

“At least they won’t be
under lock and key,” I said. This wasn’t the first death threat I’d received in
my disguise; I felt sure it wouldn’t be the last.

The haul from the
subsequent search was considerable: eight hand-guns, two machine pistols, four kilos
of cocaine, a hundred illegal DVDs, four laptops, €40,000 and two stolen cars. As
well as the incriminating information about the illegal outlets and sources
both here in Spain and in California.

Under heavy armed guard, Roldan
and his cronies were led out of the villa, in single file procession, and
loaded into the back of two Civil Guard Mercedes Sprinter wagons.

I eyed Seb. “That’ll be
the last procession he’ll be in for some time.”

Through
the eyes of Leon Cazador, half-English, half-Spanish private investigator, we
experience the human condition in many guises.

This collection covers twenty two cases, some insightful, some humorous, and
some tragic. The tales evoke tears and laughter, pleasure at the downfall of
criminals, and anger at arrogant evil-doers.

Sometimes, Cazador operates in disguise under several aliases, among them
Carlos Ortiz Santos, a modern day Simon Templar; he is wholly against the
ungodly and tries to hold back the encroaching night of unreason. Cazador
translated into English means hunter. In his adventurous life he has witnessed
many travesties of justice; he is a man driven to hunt down felons of all
kinds, to redress the balance of good against evil.

Leon Cazador fights injustice in all its forms and often metes out his own
rough justice. It's what he does. Through the eyes of Leon Cazador,
half-English, half-Spanish private investigator, we experience the human
condition in many guises.

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About Me

Nik Morton also writes as Ross Morton and a few other names besides... Ex Royal Navy, Ex IT, Expat living in Spain. Editor and writer. I write short stories, articles and novels. I also draw cartoons and illustrate comics and stories and magazine covers. To date I have 21 books published or soon-to-be published... I'm married to Jennifer, a linguist and musician who also writes. We have a daughter Hannah, son-in-law Farhad (Harry) a grandson Darius and a granddaughter Suri - who live in Spain too.